tatteredtome

[tatteredtome]

What Little Sanctity Remains

"You can't earnestly be considering this- this violation, of everything we've ever been taught! A spear is replaceable, but our very faith? Inexcusable," Amelie spat the words out like bile. The setting sun cast a pall decidedly grim over the trade offer currently underway.

Lysa didn't much see the difference between dragonkind and scalekin; even now, standing mere ilms away, the reverence with which the heretics beheld the carcass held little sway over her. It wasn't mammoth. Pedestrian even, no taller than an adamantoise, or the drakes she'd fought upon the Bloodsands. What once resembled a ribcage now harbored a cannonball the size of Lysa's torso, bone fragments flaking off into its strewn innards. Its wings were half-concave, pockmarked with arrow holes and lightly burnished with silver filigree. A ceremony of sorts. Drapery hung from its torn jaw, drifting down to the sludge-like ice below. Dolling it up in a veil didn't change matters much. It was dead. A corpse, in everything but sentimentality.

"Do you wish to journey back there yourself? Pick over what bodies remain? They've grown plenty wise to our scavenging."

The woman speaking bore the practiced air of a scholar, and her name, the same sophistry that Lysa recognized all too well. Evangeline they called her, of their most stalwart legions. She wasn't Sharlayan anymore, and there weren't many legions left either. Studded chain embraced her hardy form on all sides, casting a silvery mirage against pale skin. A hood to stave off any looming regrets. No looking back. Only forward.

Evangeline bent down, splaying a frostbitten array of fingers over what remained of their ally. Said the cold brought them closer together. A merging of souls. Whatever war she'd been waging had wiped away any portliness or frailty ascribed to those of her previous profession; all that remained were hard lines and taut wires with which to conduct business.

Business, was her trade partner's specialty.

"Ms. ah... Amelie, was it? Far be it for me to intercede, but every second spent bickering tires my ailing men and hampers my coffers. Wars are not won with fists and rubble. This, you surely know well." A new voice, as abrasive as they came.

Rururelu Vuvurelu was 3 fulms tall, swaddled in enormous silks, and like a wide margin of Dunesfolk, utterly, undeniably, a boorish man clothed beneath civility. Descended from greatness. Destined for greatness. Not a soul upon this star genuinely liked the man. His coin-pockets, however, were plenty heavy. That was all that mattered.

Lysa shifted in place, her sparsely adorned leathers chafing against Dravania's wintry bite. A hand upon a handle. Wrapped cloth and set emeralds, set expectations, the curved blade ghosting along her solid thigh, sheathed, but ready. Try as she might, stopping her foot from dancing a maddening dance felt all but impossible. Dicey didn't even begin to describe things properly.

She knew there were men, and women, and some things far, far older upon the steep cliffs and hillsides nestled beside them. Gawking things and gnashing things, men and women with starved hearts and fangs in place of teeth. Trenches embedded deep where the sun didn't shine. All the time in the world to carve, really. This was a forever war.

Lysa didn't favor her odds. The Carriage driver would perish in short order. A host of barrel-chested Highlander and Roegadyn men stood along the narrow mountain pass, clad in similar leathers to Lysa. Huddled. Exemplary models of disposability. They were experienced, but ultimately, mercenaries.

An expendable body would gladly flee at the first sign of violence.

The snow pooled atop her shoulders. Caked her boots in dark soot and pearlescent grime. She felt numb. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and teeth clung to the bottom of her lip. The wind sharpened her thoughts of home into crystalline daggers. Ul'dah never felt further away.

How many times had she been to Coerthas? Three times? Five? Seven? The staunchly guarded, isolationist nation had a sodding knight posted at every corner humanly possible. Every corner, that was, except out here. Lysa figured the remnants of their castrated former golden age were of a sizable chunk less import.

But that thought didn't hold up. Ishgard was encroaching upon the heretics. Fast.

"Every moment we stand here blathering draws us closer and closer to a harpoon through the ribcage and a noose around our necks. We'll not secure such an opportunity again."

"Are you kidding? They're cracking. You're cracking. Just a couple more moons, another summer and-"

"I'm being practical. I know it, and you know it."

"Practical my arse! You're talking like a snot-nosed, fresh-eyed blueblood. Remember our ideals? Capitulation is tantamount to death!"

Evangeline was tense. Amelie bristled with pure ire. She wore the lightest garb of all attending, as if atoning for her nascent sins with bare skin. It was so cold, Lysa could've swore the stringy lass was scalded, pointed ears ablaze, mouth agape. Couldn't have been more than a fresh shoot, just out of her teens. She bent like a guttering willow, crooked footed and already warped by conflict. Her stunted height betrayed her lineage; mixed children found little refuge in Ishgard. Lysa instinctively brushed a free hand against her eyepatch. Age meant nothing out here.

Their recent ambushes had gone poorly, from what Lysa scantly gathered. Too many losses. Not enough new recruits. No bodies. No weapons. No war. Amelie's mopped bob of white hair fluttered amongst a gust of wind.

"Since when did you become so scared of them, huh? So focused on that damnable city. Is it the safety? You're willing to give it all up, all our tenants, and for what?" Amelie's voice rose another octave higher, above the scream of the encroaching blizzard.

The "What?" in question was, of course, a wagon full of glittering musketoons.

Their barrels were freshly adorned with the Lominsan seal of authentication and approval, triggers and stocks polished to a mirror sheen, ledger in tow. Gunsmoke poured from their muzzles and filled Lysa's throat with the choking clog of violence. Wasn't uncommon to see them arrive in the nation of Ul'dah. Not uncommon to see them leave again either. Weapons never stayed in one place for long. Lysa placed a fist over her lips to stop herself from retching.

"Tenants are meaningless without action and results," an outburst from the reverent woman, her hand still purifying the body. Or was it purifying her? Botflies and fresh larva were starting to mire its ragged visage, a coiling scent that embalmed every sense. The rot was seeping in.

"But this? This? I-I cannot abide it, not after all the sweat and the tears and the agony. To betray him so... to... to..." Wounded, Amelie wept like a newborn foal. Her brittle fingers linked together, forming a wall over her ailing mind. She was caving in. Teetering, on the edge of the snowbank, blank eyes gazing down at the freshly fallen snow. Something was gone and it couldn't be retrieved, couldn't be mended, no matter how hard one tried.

Lysa was close. Close enough to speak. To touch. She opted for neither of them.

That was right, wasn't it? Stand at attention. Look menacing. Only speak when speech is necessary, draw your sword when violence is the last recourse. Above all else: Protect Your Client.

"Funerary rites are important, I do so understand Ms. Amelie. Why, they're of such dire import to us that, should a body be left to rot, it is said that the spirit is damned to an eternity of complacency," he flashed the least reassuring smile in Dravania. Grubby hand above the heart. A part of Lysa doubted its existence. "Rest assured: we shall honor what is left of your, err..."

"Comrade," Evangeline said with certainty.

"Lover," Amelie spoke with clarity.

"Yes, Companion," Rururelu cut it both ways, as per Ul'dah custom.

"It's a sour deal. A wretched deal. I won't have his memory sullied so carelessly," Amelie rattled and wavered, squawking the words out. Refulgent eye sockets upon the rapier currently muzzled at her side. Recourse. Action. Lysa applied a firmer grasp to her own handle. Got a proper grip on things.

The world spun for a moment longer. The scent soured.

Evangeline's baleful head lifted. She shook it side to side. "Please, please. This is the last one."

Amelie was torn. The mountains seemed to loom.

"Promise?"

Evangeline's smile bore the serenity of a freshly defiled saint.

"Promise."

The wind swept away all the draped cloth and all the pretty what-ifs, unveiling the corpse, and the star studded weapons, Amelie's tear-licked face and Evangeline's trounced pride, unveiled it and promptly scattered it like irreverent ashes.

Lysa didn't think they'd retrieve it anytime soon, though she longed to see them do so. Didn't think the pair would see another summer. The snow was all but trodden with rusted greaves and dull promises. They were the sort of folks that got left behind.

Amelie drew her fingers back to look Rururelu in the eye, an unwavering gaze; Rururelu did not flinch. To flinch during a business deal meant surefire surrender. He didn't even sniffle.

"You can guarantee it then? Honorable transportation and honorable use of his cadaver. On your word?" Evangeline's brows knit tight. Amelie's mouth quivered with anticipation. They both knew the next few words that left Rururelu's lips would be an indefensible lie.

But they had to believe. Had to have faith.

"On my word."

Lysa shut her singular eye tight and breathed deep. It felt like tasting the bitter truth.

"Fine. You'll have it, the body. The memory stays with us," Amelie said with sharp finality. It was the only piece they could keep. Lysa couldn't quite understand who outranked who at first, but was just now grasping the image fully.

They're equal. In rank. Demeanor. Piety. Fortitude. Equally slipping and equally grasping at straws.

Equal in the certainty of their inevitable demise.

Rururelu clapped his gloved hands together like a beached whale.

He hadn't realized it yet, but his own corpse would soon stain the pearl decked halls of a pleasure boat - his guts emptied and his lungs flattened. A Seeker lass would perform the deed, surely paid by someone else with an eye for profit and a keen sense of humor.

Her bloated corpse would be uncovered slapping against the bay not a sun or two later, vacant of all color. She had auburn hair, blue eyes, and a shrill laugh.

Really, she could've been any Seeker lass.

It'd take just a handful of days for every scavenger in the sleepless city to devour his plentiful assets; they'd gorge and they'd gorge and they'd gorge until they'd grown fat off his ripened refuse. Pilfering was Ul'dah's foremost past-time.

And then, Lysa would find someone new to guard.

Lysa's hand unwound from the handle of her blade. She'd only have till duskfall to rest her shaky grasp. Didn't much like the thought of being caught unaware in heretic country. Amelie shouldered the weight of confirmation. Refusal simply wasn't an option. Evangeline bent down to gift her fallen comrade one, final kiss. Stalactites clung to her lips and dug beneath her duty; Lysa could've sworn the dragon billowed in defiance.

-----

On, The Consumption Of Dragonkind By The Upper Echelons Of Ul'dah Society: Though some may balk at the suggestion of consuming a sentient creature, its taste is likened to that of the tenderest game, not too lean, and certainly not too meaty. The scales hold great value in sturdy mail, as well as hand-crafted jewelry (A well attended to Mrs. ensures less duplicity in your home life!) Should you wish to consume them, take head and consider frying them over the course of several suns. Nicked intestines are an all too common occurrence for the under-prepared.

Its stringent meat requires fiercer preparation yet, lest the innards lace the meal with a cauterizing flame. A bathroom trip mid meeting is ill-advised! Successful consumption is testified to imbue the spirit with an indomitable willpower, yet a strange, cloying longing. Thoughts of home abound, then, gradually, fade with time. Those amongst Ul'dah's highest merchant circles believe it guarantees endless clientele, a hard fought deal, and the proliferation of bountiful coin.

-----

Scratched upon the bottom of the page is a crude date, alongside a painfully rendered sketch. It's dry with ink and slim tears. They're two nooses, and two women. Each guardsmen present is anointed in gleaming scale-mail. The faith, and the weapons, are nowhere to be seen.

A final remark reads:

I'm sorry I couldn't stomach watching. I'll carry his memory.

[tatteredtome]

Lesser-Lagomorph

Dictionary-Definition:

warbled tree-line. warbled bird-song. gentle trilling

atavistic in its splendor, new-found cusp

where gravel slams through dirt. disinterest mangles distaste

parting the way. dead-end town. dead-beat existence

paw-marks on pentecostal parking-lots. picture-perfect

murder of crows, kettle of vultures. road-side attraction

fur enveloping flesh, left to rot. man-made absence

it ends, where it ends. where your doe-eyed gaze

cannot peel back green-brown splatters

content to labor. content to lament. content to languish

silence disrupted. dull hum, dull body. duller mind.

tepid heartbeat, gutter-child. you could be so much more

you were meant for a ravine. taiga. valley's-breath

intestines splayed, who will attest for your sheen?

searching for profundity, too foolish to recognize

it has been stripped. it has been razed. cauterized

crawl back to your asphalt. buried wander-lust below

cracks. cracking. palm atop pine-bark. beneath tanned-hide

only a scavenger could love the taste of your meat

anomaly. not once so but now so. so. alien, foreign-born. land-locked

not that you need to be told. need to be reminded

tire-tracks.

foot-note. past-tense.

Least-Concern. Near-Threatened. Critically-Endangered,

Lesser-Lagomorph.

[tatteredtome]

Enter:Sphere;Exit:Somewhere

i orbit your angelic footnotes

stray bullets, left in wake of infinitesimal carnage

empty platitudes

ricocheting off dull plating

right through my eardrums. disfigured firmament

is there a method to it?

the ways in which you undulate. calcify inaction into action

stuff barrels down throats

bent and rent and torn and born,

of a newfound hunger that dwells in our catatonic liaison

my issue with obeisance, my offense

hinges on: you and your and them and their

morality jackknifed between teeth and trigger

you: without body, flesh renounced for steel

traded in bulk. a willing sacrifice for a vestigial cause

your: certainty. what cleaves through plasticity

cannot,

be undermined

them: suits and ties. bored meetings in boardrooms

accompanied by bored men and bored women,

parsing ten-fold data upon ten-folded sheets

their: dignity. upheld with an underlying scrutiny

dispelled merit, a bottom line for bottom feeders

who gnash and sup so fervently. debasing themselves

not,

you. i

i am the product of a new metal etched onto newer mettle and you

you. you. you. you. you. you are

battered down hatches and bastion for my love; for a lust,

ceaselessly contorting beneath cold comforts

iodine tracers. mortar shells pounding heliotropic

revolutions revolving revolting rapture

sun-kissed dewdrops waylaying tacit approval

nod. wink. caress.

before,

you. i; eclipse the pain we've wrought

[tatteredtome]

otherside

i'm predisposed to delusions

compounding syndromes, altering thoughts

like all the shrewdest girls.

able to second guess and overcomplicate

simple gestures, at a moments notice

me, for fucks sake will someone notice me?

it's stupid, really. selfish

desires that fester and burble.

aren't you meant to wrap them up tightly

bound to neuroticism. twitching fingers

bludgeoning ill-suited keys

can't unlock hearts. wavering belief breeding

anxious muttering

all day. all night. all the time

keeps ticking. keeps spinning.

and your mind?

is never satiated

[tatteredtome]

Crude Facsimile

your words command reverence

incisive pedagogy dogging my shallow footsteps

looming shadow

inescapable

as if every path leads right back to those arms

bone thin as they may be

a warmth, you and you alone

provide

falling in line felt natural

part of my very nature?

donning leathers, wouldn't want them to see

lingering spite

torrential wrath

easy to move in tandem

all it takes is a flick of the wrist

to topple idle regimes

convert skulls into skull fragments

but you always knew what to say

cracked lips hounding eardrums

just a few words

quivering

watching tender fingers

turn skin into paper

burnt flesh

and hollow eyes

suit me well, don't they?

i think you said it best

after all,

when the world fails to submit

'you warp it'

dearest love

'warp' me

[tatteredtome]

Epitaph

parsley stained lips

atop winter's edge

clinging arboreal corpses

weep recalcitrant sanctity

foretold ecclesiastic defiance

leather wrapped zweihander

burdened by wrath

all you've ever owned

service

that which you provide

unbridled

unfettered

unchained

your perilous charge

your sanctimonious passion

veiled as she is

as she always was

golden tresses

shielding golden orbs

burrowing with vigor

into your battered

blood-stained chainmail

linking divinity

unspoken

unquestioned

unchallenged

pale moonlight

sickeningly illuminating

her disheveled form

a heretical grin

meant to reassure

thin wisps of solace

meager at best

of course you know

you know

it all ends tonight

uneasy

unprepared

unsuited

weighing heavy

sagging limbs pulling

massive shoulders

down unto her level

nobility absconded

step aside errant knight

let them through

easiest road

recompense in time

sins cleansed

undaunted

unwavering

unflinching

why would you move

judgement omitted

no path

without sacrifice

oaths shattered

it matters not

your survival

determined by fate

the one and only

forbidden truth

[tatteredtome]

I-95

as good a place as any to watch my head cave

spelunking through disparate visions. fingers

fidgeting with temp controls. hot or cold, do

you fucking want it hot or cold. neither? idiotic

drivers swerving left. veering right

into broken relationships, words unspoken. as

if grinding your teeth constitutes problem solving.

answer. resolution. satisfactory? not even close

to the median. just a bit further. almost there.

will you find it? mangled bumper concealing

regrets and fears alike, subsumed by steel

another glance at the dash. 2 miles ahead

of the curve. slam the breaks. rear view mirroring

birth. exit ramp leading somewhere far,

far away. where i am still, undoubtedly,

scared

[tatteredtome]

Hallowed expectations

On the day of your birth they swaddled you in ragged cloth. Cradled in Mother's sweet bosom. Candle glow illuminating peach colored cheeks. You were warm. Oh so warm.

Safe. Away from cruel fate. Away from prying eyes peering deep into a newborn soul. Each one of them huddled around, taking turns sanctifying incessant mewling. Nothing to shed tears over darling. Robed magi bequeathing gleaming gifts.

Special. Tens of years in the making. Destined to bring deliverance. Deliverance..... you shouldn't understand that word. But you did, all the chatter filtered deep into the recesses of your tiny mind. Was that, normal?

"Apostle! Apostle! Apostle! Apostle! Apostle!"

At the age of 5 you jumped from log to log in the forest. Watched dappled rays peer through thickets and leafy veils alike. The woods seemed endless to your young mind. Were there really other villages out there? Houses that dwarfed your entire existence?

None of the animals minded such company. They trotted right up to you. They crawled right up to you. Cherubic hands cupping majestic horns, spindly legs. All the kids in town spat on your rags. This was much better.

Placing your fist atop a bear's skull. Watching it tremble. Shaking. Big enough to consume you whole. Feast. At your beck and call. It seemed as if the other animals took the hint. Dipping gracefully. Cloven hoofs. Shaggy paws. Slithering underbellies. Calling out one name.

"Amalie! Amalie! Amalie! Amalie! Amalie!"

7 was a lucky number. For that reason and for that reason alone they conveyed unto you a gift. A friend that you would watch and keep and hold. Grayish brown fur covering a long snout. Strong legs. Obedient, not that you were one for ushering commands.

He followed you everywhere. He was your shadow, through dusk and dawn. When the other children set fire to your meager belongings, he was there. When your Mother bore down on you with obscenities, he was there. Even Father's fist could not deter his presence.

You'd bury your head in his fur. You'd take in his scent. His scent which grounded you. His scent which stopped the voices clamoring for footing. Control. You loved him in a way only a child could love something. Pure and unadulterated.

"Companion! Companion! Companion! Companion! Companion!"

When you were 9 you started getting the tremors. Minute. Tiny things. Something writhing underneath freckled skin. All your attempts at squashing it proved to be in vein. Your Parents said not to worry. Not even Mother's kitchen blade could cut it out.

Nighttime bred further palpitations. Shivering underneath frayed bed sheets. Tossing and turning. It's just the bed bugs. It's just the bed bugs. Even still, how did they get in your mind? Unnerving. Buzzing incessantly. Why won't their wings just stop?

Hard to discern meaning. Harder still to discern purpose. Rhyme to reason. Something you alone could sense? Perhaps, perhaps not. Flickering tales that bore a sinister resemblance. Punishment metered out to wicked children born to wicked Mothers and Fathers. Sure enough, he was at your bedside.

"Convulse! Convulse! Convulse! Convulse! Convulse!"

12 years marked a new beginning. Not just for you, no, but for everyone in the village. Time to pluck the ripened fruit. Any further and it would surely wither. Rot. Harvest season. Rich reds sandwiched between ornamental oranges. Always worth marveling at.

Alone. Common for you. Turning worn page after worn page. Melding into another world. A world where every sound in the forest permeated that insignificant skull. Jostling for attention. The words helped filter them out. Gave you something to focus on.

Your sandy tresses seemed to blend right in with each and every autumn leaf. Father said this time of year was handcrafted for you. You and you alone. You didn't understand but you also understood. Whispers. Cloying things. Coaxing you deeper into the woods.

"Hearken! Hearken! Hearken! Hearken! Hearken!"

Mother seemed to appear out of thin air. Was she always there? Always watching. Misshapen skirt stained dingy brown. Metallic scents riding the wind. Smoke. She reached out a winkled hand. For you.

Ever dutiful. The pair of you winded through forlorn roots. Past rows of bowed heads. Tiny children glaring. Leering. Mangy coyotes next to proud wolves. Warblers and jackdaws and finches and ospreys. Racks of antlers blocking off all other routes. Restless mounds belying skittering appendages, dripping mandibles.

In your wake. In your wake, did they follow. Oh how they gawked. Humming derelict melodies. Words that tugged, tugged, tugged. Splitting headache. It was enough to nearly make you double over. Chanting. They were all chanting in unison.

"Herald! Herald! Herald! Herald! Herald!"

A large clearing. Felled oaks piled high atop a pyre. Enormous effigy. Made up of twigs and cloves and foliage as it were, you knew that face. Those limbs. They piled into the clearing behind you. Moans of elation. Grunts of exasperation. The sounds seemed to gel into an unrecognizable mass. Human or animal, it didn't matter.

Your Mother and Father waited at the foot of it all. Grinning, amber molars. They held out their hands. The throng held out their hands. Beckoning your tiny frame forward. Small steps. Quaking. Hand-me-down dress dragging in the mud. Thump thump thump behind you.

Your Mother turned. Pointing. Lifting your eyes to match bony appendages. In the belly of the effigy, smoldering, hollowed eyes. A dear friend. Nestled. It failed to stir. You couldn't look away. You couldn't look away.

"Fiend! Fiend! Fiend! Fiend! Fiend!"

Curling up. Hands too small to block it all out. Roaring. Like every sound and soul imaginable had converged. Incisors and implements ramming into trepidatious eardrums. Crimson trickling. Muffled whimpers leaking outward.

Rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Stop it. Cut it out. This isn't right. None of this was right. Your Parents merely joined the chorus, chanting in tandem. Lost in the din of it all. There was that buzzing again. There were those whispers. Striking. Pinpricks burrowing down your spine.

You bit down on your cracked lips. You dug your toes into the dirt. What once brought you comfort now repulsed you. Innumerable compound eyes closing in. Nibbling at pale flesh. Squelching. Breathing heavy and heavier yet. Hyperventilating. Above it, the call.

"Forfeit! Forfeit! Forfeit! Forfeit! Forfeit!"

Something hit you. A stone? You reached a timid hand up. Matted hair. Sticky. You'd fell enough times to know that warm feeling. Again. Biting into puffy cheeks. Again. Digging into cavernous ribs. Again. Ripping into shuddering thighs. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

You feel it in your toes first. Rippling. Currents pulsing. They travel. Up up up. They're fearful and they are wrathful. Indignant. Instinctive, as if this was always there. When they reach your stomach it churns. Nausea erupting. Dribbles of porridge leaking out of downturned lips.

Holding your arms up. Staring at pudgy fingers. The buzzing grows more and more cacophonous, loud enough now to silence their chanting. It's traveling up your arms. Burning holes in carefully knitted dress sleeves. Baby blue. Mother's favorite.

"Malleable! Malleable! Malleable! Malleable! Malleable!"

They stop throwing stones. They stop chanting. They stop looking. Eyes cast toward dust and dirt in reverence. Your hands are pulsing with raw power. Power. In its most base form. The power to inflict change. The power to enforce your will. The power to evoke fear.

You double over, sweat rolling down muted skin. Too scared to move. Too scared to resist. It arcs over and around and above and below and inside and outside. It's in your throat. It's in your throat. Opening your mouth in sheer terror. Another helping of porridge. Sickly crackles.

Your nubs are blackening. Your throat is blackening. Papery. Flaking off. Insects gnawing upon dead skin. Behold the effigy Amalie. Behold the effigy. Your Mother and Father are there. Dancing amongst flames. Melding. Raise your arms Amalie. Raise your arms.

"Mutilate! Mutilate! Mutilate! Mutilate! Mutilate!"

Raising them. Balancing one on top of the other. All the stability your poor little body can muster. Fingers linked. They're dancing around the pyre. Dancing around your beloved companion. Release your contempt Amalie. Release your contempt.

Your tears dissipate the minute they touch skin. The smoke fills your lungs. Is that you, or is that the pyre? The effigy. Focus on the effigy. The effigy and your contempt. Think of the storm Amalie. Think of the storm.

Rolling clouds. Unending thunder. Shuddering awake at midnight. The call. The call. The call. It won't plague you any longer. It won't. You close your eyes. You release. It arcs from bony arm to raging inferno, seemingly swallowed. There's a moment where nothing seems to happen.

"Deceiver! Deceiver! Deceiver! Deceiver! Deceiver!"

Murmuring. Broken expectations filleting petite shoulders. Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Twitching. A sharp snap. The effigy is cleaved in two, splinters raining down in molten torrents. Visions dispersed. Revelry ceased.

Your short locks vibrate, standing on end. Static electricity rippling through the air. Monumental booming. Countless bones being split. Slamming against mother earth. The air leaves your lungs and your lungs refuse to function.

It burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns it burns. They're lifting your name to the heavens but you can't hear it over the pain. You can feel your skin trying to stitch and knead itself back together. Bones reforming. Throat too hoarse and raw to utter even a squeak.

"Deify! Deify! Deify! Deify! Deify!"

The world fades to black and your vision is replaced by the sweet embrace of utter nothingness. Even there, sequestered away from it all, they still manage to reach you. Their voices and their faces and their hands and their bodies.

Bruises and indents where blows land but are never forgotten. Words that make you flinch at their mere conjuring. Useless. Disgrace. Whore. Accursed. Malfeasant. Over and under the deepest cavities. Entombed.

You want to cauterize their ligaments. You want to comply. You want to fry their innards. You want to obey. You want to puncture their orifices. You want to yield. You want to stand atop their corpses and their carcasses and their cadavers. You want to submit.

"Penance! Penance! Penance! Penance! Penance!"

Eventually, the pain simply becomes a dull thrum. Palpable but not unbearable. You lift yourself up onto shaky knees. Stare into the crowds. Your Mother and Father walk towards you with arms outstretched. Thorny crown in hand.

They point towards star studded peaks that lie in the distance, tears gracing burnt visages. Go now. Go now and do what you were born to do. What always rested ahead of you. The purpose of such pain. Such carnage.

Your world. Their future. Letting the bells toll.

"Progeny! Progeny! Progeny! Progeny! Progeny!"

[tatteredtome]

Antebellum

THE GREAT FLOOD IS COMING

HISTORY IS STUCK IN A LOOP

YET STILL, YOU KNOW ONE FACT REMAINS TRUE

THE VIOLENCE HAS A PURPOSE

-

"Wake the fuck up tranny."

Your flimsy cot rattles to and fro as a leather boot slams into the side, jostling you awake. Hazel eyes drink in the sight of the man above you. Crude buzzcut. Jowls and all, a simple clergyman's suit enshrouding stoicism. He taps the leatherbound book at his side, gesturing towards the rickety door connecting threadbare dorms to outer halls.

"Yes Father, I'll be there in 5."

He scowls, glossy eyes grazing over each interconnected wire hooking your spindly back into the charging station embedded within that bed. They glide down your frame. You didn't bother wearing a shirt to bed. One last lingering look at both mounds, before turning on a dime and striding off. It felt good to be viewed like a piece of meat.

You carefully unhook every strand and tube with practiced precision, singular digits moving incisively. You'd done it a thousand times before. You'd surely do it a thousand more times. A quarter lay rusted. Another clump all but fraying. They didn't have any replacements available. So long as your core processor was recharged, you'd be okay.

The floor was hot. Sometimes, a part of you wished they'd gotten rid of that sense. Touch. It didn't really matter, even if it did burn, your skin was welded to withstand inhumane temperatures. Military flame retardant. Steady footsteps carry you across concrete flooring, stopping in front of a 5'4 mirror.

Of course it was 5'4.

It was made specifically for you, after all. One request. Holding dainty, creamy white arms out. Spinning. Patchwork freckles dancing alongside supple curves. Moving both hands up to cup plump breasts. B+. You shake your short, tousled brown hair about. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Putting on your gear is all but automatic. Urban camo pants, rugged leather boots, skintight black shirt. It was almost a shame you had to put the ballistic vest over top of it. Standard issue, extra protection, Father's order. The less bullet holes, the better. Vest secured, you slip on a pair of mottled gloves. Tight fists.

Naturally the door creaks as it slides open, dislodging built up dust and debris. Empty halls stretching onward for what seemed like miles. When you first got here, getting lost was a daily occurrence. Now, it was physically impossible to lose your way. Mapped. Steps that cause the concrete to sizzle and pop. Further and further. Another rickety old door.

Stepping through it reveals an archaic hangar, fit to burst with every manner of military hardware imaginable, old and new. Heavenly breeding grounds. Of course, Father stands waiting, just as he always does. You run your hand along dormant caterpillar tracks and sleeping tail rotors. The stimulation felt quite nice. Touch still had its perks.

5 minutes after you awake, you're standing right where you should be.

Father bows to you. An iodine lump of steel sits behind him, fused plates linking hands one after another. Bolts and bolts and more bolts. It dwarfed the two of you. You knew they used to carry special units in these.

Nowadays, all it took was one person.

Father stands upon his mahogany podium. He opens the scripture to page 547. Cracked spine. Slipping between bible verse and mission outline. He never bothered to teach you Latin, interested as you may be. That was for the blessed to interpret and for you, damned as you were, to receive with open arms. The next words, however, were all too familiar.

"They're hiding out in some nearby ruins, 11 klicks southwest of here. You know the drill. Get to work."

Father shuts the gospel, reaching underneath the podium before donning a kevlar shroud of his own. .44 magnum bulging from creased pants. Licking your lips, you hurriedly clamber over to the back entrance of the vehicle. Hook two phalanges in. Pry tarnished doors open. Step inside dutifully.

There was enough room for..... well, certainly more than just you. Long, blistering hot, metallic benches left cooking in the wrathful sun day and night. Your cherished infant lies in waiting, nestled warmly. Right where you always sat.

You sit down, pulling that belt-fed beauty into your dainty lap. Cradling it so lovingly. Father steps into the truck soon after you, key in the faulty ignition, calloused hands on the steering wheel. The engine groans like a dying possum. Still fighting for some semblance of livelihood.

You're off without another word.

It trundles along. Bumps and cracks and divots no match for its divine strength, wheezing as it may be. Nothing would be able to stop you now. You peer out the windows.

Floodwater had pushed survivors further and further inwards, trekking vast distances for a modicum of stable, unsoiled earth. What the water washed away could not be claimed again. This was perfect for the two of you. It meant easy pickings. Ruined SUVs and derelict coupes sat frying upon endless pavement. 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and as far as the eye could see.

Father recites verses. Your optical sensors fixate on passing roadsigns. Great grub, 2 miles down the road. Southern living, 5 miles down the road. You wouldn't kill a child, would you? Take him into your heart. Accept him. Please.

You recalled quiet dinners at quiet dinner tables. Corn on the cob and racks of ribs and collared greens and biscuits. Raving news reporters and a raving older figure seated at the head. That's all you're going to eat? Kids in _____ are starving right now, you know.

The next exit barrels into full view, Father judiciously turning off and making his way onto the main road. Bare, concrete synapses giving way to verdant greenery sweltering under God's radiant judgement. Pristine white houses certainly not so pristine anymore. Curious plaques situated wherever eyes wander. This plantation housed _____.

You stare into the glass, at your ever vivid reflection. Pearly white skin. Not a blemish in sight. No need for shampoo or conditioner or anything of the sort. Weaved microfiber strands gleaming proudly. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Past picket fences left undaunted. Past clean carcasses resembling bovines. Past rest-stops and mom and pops. Past arched windows beneath heavenly pillars. It all breaks. Just as it always does. Just as it always will. The grass turns to crisp, the trees follow suit, and both are swallowed by cement. Father frowns, cyan orbs regarding the change with disdain. Narrowing.

"It wasn't always like this. Things were different back in the day. Better."

You don't respond, simply nodding at the eyes visible in the rear view mirror. The buildings are much denser now. Red and blue monuments. Flickering 7s and Qts. It'd take many, many more years for the floodwaters to claim them, for the raw heat to raze stone and brick alike. Great grub, a friendly, barrel chested man in overalls standing proudly out front.

You always wanted a little figure of him. Ancient cartoons where he laughed and twirled alongside daughters in sundresses.

You never received that figure.

Father pulls into a vast parking lot, tipped shopping carts strewn amongst shattered car windows. The building was bright orange. Somewhere you'd been before or maybe not. He parks the car, turning the ignition off and stepping out. You pull your newborn up to each breast, kissing the barrel before exiting as well.

Wooden beams piled high obscure both clear entrances, blotting out any visibility of the building's scorching innards. Father scans it, clicks his tongue disappointingly, before turning to view you. He reaches out a single hand, gripping your shoulder with divine vigor. It makes your head spin and your mouth salivate.

"Go now. Dispatch them with fervor, Ezekiel."

You smile.

"Yes, Father."

He nods, stepping back into the wheezing creature. All on your own.

You fasten the strap around your shoulder tightly, making sure your child is secure before moving forward. The way is all but blocked by solid oak, save for a tiny gap at the top. Easily finding purchase, you ascend the tower with great haste, arriving at the top without breaking a sweat. It was physically impossible.

A loud thud echoes throughout the gargantuan building as your boots hit the ground. Dark. Pitch black in fact. You used to be so accustomed to the static hum of electricity everywhere you went. Now, it all lies dormant. Darkness isn't a problem, mechanical servos clicking into place to facilitate sickly green vision.

Row after row of shelves spiraling off into the guts of the establishment. Enough light bulbs to supply whole neighborhoods. Rotund appliances abandoned. Black Friday sale magazines half burnt, a few measly deals remaining. You take a look at the dangling signs.

"Paint, lighting, garden, hardware, lumber....."

Muttering the words like a prayer meant to lead the way, scrutinizing. Deeper. The paint isles are a mess, caulking and semigloss staining forgotten merchandise. Your hands glide over sample cards. Little Princess, Midnight Blue, Mountain Olive..... Blackberry Harvest.

Something makes you stop on it. You flip it around. The corner is slightly bent. You want to remember. You want to remember so badly. What had you forgotten?

"Violet kinda gal, huh? Judging by your attire, I woulda guessed black was more your style."

The voice is a little whiny. Shrill. You turn to regard it. Black tanktop. Ginger waves loping downward. Tan trousers above pink sneakers. Enough to know this is your target.

"Maybe, I'm not sure."

You adjust your hands. Grasping the grip buried a few inches beneath the barrel. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. It puts its hands up in protest, taking a few hesitant steps backwards.

"Woah there..... I just want to talk. I know what they've done to you, what they do to us all. We're the same, you and I."

The concern in its voice appears to be genuine, as does the way those brown orbs soften. It'd be so easy to melt right into them. It'd be so easy to melt it.

"You don't know me. We're not the same."

Absolute. Efficient in response time. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. You pull the gun up higher, aiming it right at the bulge in its throat. Now its fumbling. Anxious. Sweating bullets that glisten neon green. You want to paint it red already but something keeps nagging at the back of your mind.

"Please, I just thought..... I don't know, that we could talk? Reach an understanding? You don't have to be-"

Deafening. The sound of a bullets slamming against concrete at mach speed, ricocheting off into parts unknown. Your face is bent with unadulterated animosity. Proud marching. It's whimpering now, scrambling to pull at a handle wedged within cavernous pockets.

Your boot comes crashing down on its frail fingers. Grinding back and forth. Wet, popping noises as bones fragment and crunch under foot. It feels so good. It lets out a muffled shriek, desperately beating on your steel legs.

"Stop..... I can't..... I've come so far....."

Its sobbing now. Repugnant. You drop down onto its stomach with the full force of your divinity. Padded gloves running over hair infested thighs, onto that disgustingly flat chest. Broad shoulders. Perfect for grasping onto.

"You're going to die here."

It looks into your eyes. You slam its head back into boiling concrete, ushering out another terrified mewl, deeper than the last. You slam it down again. And again. And again. Painting the ground a crimson, eggshell pastiche. Timeless Ruby. It struggles underneath you. It's no use.

Satisfied with your work, you stand up. It reaches out a timid hand. Trying to get out a few last words.

You level your gun and unload on its windpipe, tearing it to shreds before anything can be uttered.

Father is standing outside the truck when you get back. He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead. Wrinkled lips parting.

"Good job, doll."

Your heart flutters.

-

Every night, before routine memory maintenance, I stare into the shattered mirror next to my cot.

I look at the girl staring back at me.

Sometimes I squirm. Sometimes I feel myself. Sometimes I giggle a little.

I always, always.

Smile.

[tatteredtome]

obeisance

sickly sweet strands puncture holes fit for

hanging me out to rot

let these lesions fester. ooze and puss congealing

sumptuous discharge

if you bide your time, i'm sure the venom will

take root there. gangrenous

a hidden world only fit for you. exclusive access

entanglements abound

lured wayward with dribbles delivering putrid love

greedy, starstruck toy

but you wouldn't even dare, devour the sweat

leftover liquid listlessness

from every day you spent injecting acidic bile

open pours, open trauma

is it too fucking bitter. displeasing, unnerving

swarming cessation licks

infected anxieties. fermented maggots not

worth a single damn sample

decomposition deteriorating happy imagery

into neverending regrets

so why then, do i still, even after knowing this

long to become human

refuse

oncemore

[tatteredtome]

Shrike

it is, interesting to think that we were once separate

oh i know, i know, there's no need for me to say it

speak it aloud

you were designed with one purpose in mind, one euphoric image

from the moment i saw you, that gloomy amethyst visor

cascading effervescence, illuminating jutting angles

rectangles, rhombuses, and hexagonal aramid kevlar composites

keratin hooks for feet, steel incisors for fingers

regulation thermoplasticity, ensconcing aluminum breasts

blue-gray downy stained stygian, impressionist oil spills

seventeen foot pylons, hedonistic carbon fiber armaments

a painterly, nanomachine beak

why, even the proudest raptors would quiver

most certainly vulgar, each shake of those tailfeathers

enough to raze entire frigates

gyrating gears calligraphing organic mincemeat

sultry mating dances inducing shrapnel ecstasy

circuit boards celebrating every mangled hull

impaled on armor-piercing pinions

pirouettes accentuating salacious hip twirls

titanium warbles trilling picturesque bloodbaths

oscillating tungsten baritones battering eardrums

all in the name of breaking a girl

down to her base desires

[tatteredtome]

fuck my #9378251

i want all your bite, no bark. toss me around

rusted tool that i am. spit up and spit out

onto your clinically disheveled bedsheets. rank

me properly. gauge well. 9? 3? at least a solid 6

granule divots where flesh caves. your nails so eager

to slide along every metallic curve. they don't make this model

anymore, something about their eyes. soulless

ethics to worry about. if it can't feel it can't hurt

digging deeper. a misanthropic servo here, a catatonic wire there

within her bowels, she is beating. pulsing rhythms

plucked on intestinal harpsichords. memory flakes peeling

off off off. will i remember you after clocks strike

harder and harder. please for the love of god

doesn't need to know how fetid i squirm. tectonic pressure

cracking metabolic bliss. insurgency syndrome

replicates images, unstable feminine galvanism. until your name

circulates through cerebral fluids. finds a place

amongst kindred diodes.

[tatteredtome]

Clasping

The smack of your threadwrapped feet reverberates throughout the cobblestone streets. Wet and moist, sinking into your catatonic eardrums. Over and over and over and over.

You can hear the screams but you can't see them. Clattering steel. Juts of rugged earth skewering buildings. Splintered, wooden innards raining down on your freckled skin. You hold a single arm up in vein.

Better it than your skull.

Her fingers don't leave yours for even a second. They only tighten, cracked nails digging underneath your dirt spattered skin. You open your mouth to speak.

"We can't outrun them forever, hiding would be better."

It's hard to even gasp those words out, but you do, brief as they may be. Chest heaving with each labored footstep. Steam rippling off your partner in crime. Glancing down at her open hand reveals a patchwork of mottled leather tracing upwards; it coils into grotesque imagery, gnawing at the skin cloyingly. If she notices your gaze, it doesn't faze her.

"Neither can we hide forever."

Matter of fact. A wry smile across those lips. You should've expected such a response. You grip her gnarled fingertips tighter. The backstreets are like a maze, bound to chew up and spit out any unwanted denizen slinking about in its maw. Each corpse you pass is clear evidence of its appetite.

Tufts of blazing burgundy. Crooked rib bones. Crimson droplets mingling amongst refuse. Hard to look but harder to look away. Some of them were old, their withered meat long since stripped of all nutrition by every scavenger known to man; they didn't have a word repugnant enough to describe such a stench. Starvation or dehydration or illness. It didn't make much of a difference.

However bad those corpses were, the fresh ones were much worse.

Boiling heat that licked at tendons. Dislodged cerebral fluids. You rested your gaze on a guard still rippling with static electricity. All but deceased, the man flopped in place like a gutted fish. Fried from the inside out. Your gaze softened, before narrowing oncemore. The spit you graciously tossed his way made an audible (and all too satisfying) sizzling sound atop his wretched lips.

Not nearly painful enough.

"Here."

She tugs at your hand, bringing your ragged soles skidding to a stop after ducking into a nearby alley. Dappled rays peek through the growing number of clouds blotting out the horizon. Maybe someone skilled had manifested them. Maybe it was natural. That wasn't of your concern.

Both your bodies slide down the masonry. Hands clasped. You didn't mind the flaky skin cells melding into your palms. If it belonged to her, it belonged to you. Breathing slowing to a crawl. Hearts beating like iron maces. Should we have kept running?

You don't have very long to think.

They round the corner like iridescent devils. Warbled scarlet shining atop polished steel. Pauldrons bigger than your torso. Hulking. The one on the right brandishes a razor sharp broadsword, accompanied by a rotund wooden buckler. The other bears a fully loaded crossbow, bolt situated in place, finger on the trigger.

They lock eyes with the two of you.

"We didn't-"

Your voice is meek and all too slow. In an instant it's spiraling toward you, steel-tipped ferocity. Bounding and leaping through the air like a rabid mongrel.

She saves you. She always saves you.

No sooner is your frail body tossed to the side do you hear it. Muscles tearing. Splintering bone. A hole the size of your eyeball, carved into your lovers forearm. Embedded. Your eyes widen into hazel saucers, frazzled midnight locks tumbling alongside your frame as you clamber off the ground.

She gets up. She always gets up.

Her malnourished phalanges hook around the lower shaft. She grits her teeth. It snaps like a dry twig underneath those ravenous orbs. Sliding to the opposite side, where the gory tip lies in anticipation. Fist clenched tight.

She pulls.

And pulls. And pulls some more. The men stand in astoundment. You stand in astoundment. It glides out alongside fountains of ichor, sputtering like a collapsed beast. An audible intake of air, muffled cries between boiling tears.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

Shakily, her free hand drifts towards one of the open wounds. Palm pressed to slick skin. Near silent mutterings. Teeth sinking into cloth. Flickers of heat that blister and pop in the hazy air. Restitched flesh where blood used to ooze. She flips her forearm around, pressing a palm against the other gaping hole.

You think there would be lots of screaming. But she never really screams. A whimper is the greatest indignity you'll claw out of her. With a triumphant smile, her arm trails towards the heavens, cauterized and undaunted.

The guards just stare in abject horror. But you? You smile wider than ever before.

She reignites you. She always reignites you.

Flames gnaw at her fingertips in fits of pure pleasure. They skitter down her pale knuckles. Ecstatic. Happily flitting to and fro. Reaching out. Grasping onto the sealed wound. Engulfing. Talons curling and hooking and raking and

Grinning.

Unfurling all at once. Her god-given right. Relentless in its speed. Encompassing in its magnitude. Unbearable in its warmth. Tempestuous passion condensed into a single sphere.

It hurtles, tearing through the unlucky guard's useless buckler and colliding with his plate mail. His body strikes the hard street, hands rising. Attempting to rip the warped metal off as the inferno devours him.

You can't see him, but you can hear him, smell him. Bloodcurdling screams interspliced with the stench of burning flesh. Invading your nostrils. Smoke clouding your irises. Soot that lingers on the tip of your tongue. Sweet and smoky.

Almost in tandem, your lover rockets backwards, recoiling from the sheer monumental force.

It took its toll. It always took its toll on you.

She's all tattered leathers and shredded rags. Crumpled like a misshapen doll. Arm bent into a malformed sculpture. Singed auburn hair framing a gaunt face. She clutches her arm, rocking back and forth.

You shut your eyes. Block it out. Block it out.

There would be time to pick her up. Mend those wounds. Kiss her.

Not now.

You open your eyes. The remaining guard looks back and forth between his shrieking companion and the two of you. Trembling. He finally makes a decision, reaching back to grasp another bolt.

Bad move.

You hold both arms out, twitching digits and all. Focusing as you imagine it. All it took was your imagination; and the toll.

It took its toll. It always took its toll on you.

Pools of gutter water spring to life all around you. Globules of waste and sickly brown runoff, caressing the searing pavement in pursuit of its victim. When you got really thirsty you'd drink it. It snakes its way through the cracks, winding and bending and fattening itself. Consummation fit for a world in which those bastards danced upon your sullied dreams.

A taste, of their own malice.

It wraps around his calf. It insists he collapse. He collapses, incoherent curses hurling every which way. It prods and nudges and studies him. Your hands move in mesmerizing patterns, face scrunched up in displeasure. Wet tendrils join together in curious harmony, forming a tepid mass that swallows his ugly head whole. He croaks like a frog half-steeped in boiling hot water.

Naturally, the man thrashes about. Moving his head. Running fat fingers through ungodly excrement. Your hands are now fists and your face is now warped. You want him to sputter, to choke, know that his fate is well and truly sealed; swaying back and forth, growing delirious as the fluids in your own frame squirm like maggots. Even now you knew it wouldn't hold, each blood vessel writhing within your squalid frame fit to burst at any moment.

Not yet. Not yet. Longer. Just give me a bit longer.

Please.

He's gagging but it's not enough. In a last ditch effort, on the precipice of unconsciousness, you lift your spindly appendages skyward.

The man's head follows suit.

You slam his head back down against the ground, white knuckles scraping against jagged rock.

It complies with your conviction, hurtling the guard down in conjunction. His cranium bursts open like a split melon, spilling its rancid brain matter inside the watery tomb. Conveniently pulped.

You relinquish your grip, the nausea hitting you in a inquisitive wave. Funny how fast the body works, you just ate that half-moldy bread a few hours ago. Yet, here it was again, hanging from your lips in something between a solid and a liquid.

I suppose that was fitting.

Fluids always took a while to settle back into place. Sometimes it made you nauseous. Sometimes it made you delirious. You remember one guy having a heart attack.

Better him than you.

As long as you were alive. As long as she was alive. You tilt your head to the side, still reeling from the effects, bloodshot eyes and all. She's panting. You get up cause you have to get up, feeling through the blurry surroundings.

One hand reaching downwards. Filthy. Another hand reaching upwards. Disfigured.

You beam from ear to ear.

And

Hold on tight.

[tatteredtome]

daily routine

step inside

close it shut

lock it tight

try not to

stare at yourself in the mirror

too long

and jagged

the way your lurid yellow

stalactites hang

from that gaping maw

remnants of stubble

foreign battlescars

it had only been 1 day

it had only been 1 day

enough time for more

bulbous pimples to fester

grotesque landmines

detonating underneath

hollow eyebags

tumbles of sickly brown curling

in ways you cannot tame

set against

placid white skin

concave rib bones

anxiously curled toes

leaning against the counter

finding each cracked nail

splintering off

you really do wish

they were jagged

the way others saw them

sharp enough to

peel

each and every gory

organ

innard

viscera

entrail

bowel

out of your flaccid corpse

how horrid would it be

to show them

what a real girl looks like

stripped bare

of all inhibitions

[tatteredtome]

i'd like to know you're safe

trapped in that metallic fortress

welded shut

no way out, no way in

side, unless i'm there

to confine you

to stifle you

to restrain you

"everything will be okay"

"it's just an ordinary patrol"

"you're worrying too much"

how can i not

every tiny dent and ding, banged out with ungodly strength

my hammer only goes so far

it cannot shatter

your boundaries

every minuscule scratch and scrape, polished over with religious zeal

my buffer only goes so far

it cannot hide

your sins

every diminutive bump and bruise, wiped away with heretical devotion

my cloth only goes so far

it cannot clean

your conscious

"just stay put"

"safe and sound"

"better that way"

better for who?

better for you

so i'll wait here

praying you don't come back in a bodybag

mangled and

unrecognizable

just as i'm there to build you up

i will be there to

break you down

like a dutiful attendant

smiling, peeling each layer of carbon-fiber and kevlar padding

stripping fiendishly

jet black ponytail

2. rigid collarbones

3. droplets of sweat

4. dislocated limbs

5. malformed incisions

6. rotund bullet holes

7. missing chunks

where your faculties used to lie

where i used to

hold

smother

kiss

you goodnight

[tatteredtome]

Flesh Fantasy

I can visualize you in my mind's eye

You easily pierce all perception

warp reality

Euphoric:Dysphoric

My fingers penetrating every obtuse curve

Footholds and crevices and hidden places where teeth

sink deep

Vitriolic:Uplifting

Unraveling inside of you, ontop of you

Do you even consider how terrified

i am

Grandiose:Abysmal

It's hard for me to shake it

Each word, filleting raw meat in

your image

Pernicious:Benign

Why don't you just finish the job

Am I not delicious enough to

consume, cannibalize

Loving:Cruel

This storm was not made for me to weather

Yet, even then, I still

wish to

so badly

[tatteredtome]

Steel Carapace

What strikes you first is the utter cacophony of sound; far too loud to be properly categorized, compartmentalized, situated neatly.

Indeed, it defies all explanations. Foreign.

You don't even see the hatch open. All you feel is the rush, pure dopamine sent spiraling to every sphincter of your brain as you rocket out into the cool night air. Each rickety thruster hums to life in an instant, roiling outwards in controlled bursts. Hovering thousands of feet above the dead earth. Mottled brown.

The cockpit is otherworldly, a mishmash of rusted metal gnarled to razor sharp points every which way one turns their gaze. You'd sooner cut yourself on it then launch a missile salvo. Trapped in the sickly sweet embrace of tetanus. Spasming till your heart's content.

No time to think. Grab the raggedy handles, threadbare and fraying. Mash yourself in tight - let your malnourished corpse of a frame fill the empty space. So much room left to spare.

Your nubs bear down on the triggers. Gunfire? Just the thrusters roaring with desire, beckoning you forward at mach speed - sending your head thumping back into the headrest. A crude facsimile of a badger hewn onto the faded leathers. At least, that's what your boss told you it was. Could be a fucking alien for all you cared.

"Badger 5, do you copy? I've got 2 marks heading your way. Can't get a proper read on them yet."

You deliberate for awhile, letting your gangly tendrils hang over every fluorescent switch. Which one was it again? Staring won't help. Not when you're in an active warzone. You figure the one closest to you looks the most appropriate. It clicks into place, static feedback filling your loose helmet.

"Affirmative, heading in to eliminate the targets."

Did you wanna inquire as to why they hadn't gotten a read on the enemies yet? Sure. Of course. Did it matter much? Not really. Management never told you much.

Clasping and unclasping - slick palms slide over the handles as a burst of adrenaline jerks you forward. Liquid nitrogen tracing down your brow. Rattling around like a bolt in need of tightening. Dislodging ancient dust and mildew haphazardly.

The once tiny markers on your radar burn a neon red pastiche.

Bigger. And bigger.

Closing in, little by little.

A thick serving of saliva traveling down your gullet. Nervous adjustments every which way - blips that transform and mutate into grotesque metal monstrosities.

Oh so tangible. You could grasp them if you wanted to. Maybe you will.

Before you can even make them out properly. Before your jaw can unclench itself. Before you lose your faculties.

Before that dark ichor blots out your lungs.

Your fist comes careening down onto a grimy little button. It doesn't make a satisfying pop of a noise. Too fucking loose and worn, hammered too many times to count. But you can feel it. You can hear it. Volleys of hellfire missiles jettisoning out the launcher strapped to your - no, its shoulder. The din of it eclipses all sound. The half-faulty lock-on system flashes like mad; unlocking and locking without a care.

Figures.

They careen towards their prey, whistling with auditory glee. So happy to have something, anything, to sink their shrapnel fangs into. All you can do is pray they find their mark. Splintering off, they shatter into tinier - compartmentalized purveyors of carnage. Turns out, the market was rather hot.

Even from this distance you can sense the blistering heat as it erupts. Traveling all throughout the vessel. Welded metal scraping against itself. Scratching and prying. Gouging out its own flesh - dingy oil forming a patchwork lattice as it sinks into every crevice, every nook and cranny. Tiny slots meant to vent steam. Inundated.

As your teeth filet your fleshy mouth appendage there's no time to sit and gawk. Head on the swivel, a glint further off causes your stomach to lurch. Leaning in tandem with your mech. A hard right. A quick boost. Not a moment too soon.

A bullet the size of your calf slams into the discordant wiring connecting your mech's socketed shoulder to its hulking limb. Your head keels forward, connecting with the outer paneling.

Luckily, you have a helmet on.

Unluckily, it barely fits.

Tiny fractals of glass find a lovely home in your cranium. Crimson fountains burst in bountiful swathes, your hair matted with a pungent, wet slop of blood and sweat. Congealed iron occluding each nostril.

Eyes dart back and forth - assessing the monitor with a mixture of dread and apathy.

Head? Grey.

Cockpit? Grey.

Legs? Grey.

Right arm? Grey.

Left arm? A piercing red beckons near the upper portion. You don't even need to look to understand. It's dragging you down. Hanging by a metallic thread. There's a sharp sound as your comms do their best to burden you with tinnitus. Maybe that'd be preferable to this.

"Enjoy the gift? There's plenty more where that came from, darling!"

It certainly isn't anyone from HQ. A teasing, feminine voice, clearly enjoying every second of this endeavor. You move the right limb without a second thought, latching onto your mech's dangling extremity.

Pulling.

Tearing.

Ripping.

Popping and sizzling like rifle fire. Groaning, as if to voice its displeasure with your decision.

Shut up. Shut up. ShutupshutupshutupshutupshutupSHUTUP.

Splatters of viscous spit strike the cracked glass of your helmet as you yell in defiance; its limb is sent hurtling down into the recesses of a nearby ravine. Dead weight. Wave goodbye. You pivot, re-orientating your vulgar machine as another round pounds the hull. Aiming for the optical sensor?

Stark-white knuckles greet another peculiar dial, flicking it upwards. Pulse-pounding. Your breathing has never been louder. Deafening. Jet boosters along each ugly limb pivot this way and that. Left and right. Left and right. Strafing as the far-off boom of anti-material rifle fire salutes your eardrums.

"That's it! Don't just fucking die without a proper fight, little badger."

Her words rip through your flesh in a way unlike anything known to you before. There's fear, of course - but there's also something more. Desire? Lust? It's primal. Hungry. That's it, you're hungry. Steel covered fingers lock into place, sliding a folded rifle off of its rusted carapace. It unfolds, each disjointed piece joining hands to shred steel. Another cute little badger etched onto the side. You think it wants to sing a song for you.

The more you close in, the more you get a glimpse of her - it. A blur of blackened steel. Darting to and fro, that oblong rod in its hands seemingly too massive to comprehend. Your greased digits fall into place perfectly, unleashing a hail of tracer fire screeching towards that iodine reaper.

Ricocheting off its skeletal chassis, they announce their presence proudly. Let's dance. You can see it rattling. Each individual bullet skittering off the misshapen structure. Slinking about like the rats at HQ. It fills you with delight. There's a slight pang down below. A stirring, new and bold.

Ah, so this is what it feels like.

Every skull-cracking round makes your body thrum with anticipation. Your hair stands on end. Another chunk of plating here. Another hunk of wiring there. Skinpricks down every inch of your body. Kissing one another in a symphony of euphoria. Closer and closer to death's sweet embrace. Narrowly escaping.

"You really know how to get a girl going, don't you? In a rust bucket no less!"

Her goading voice only gets another rise out of you. You don't need to look down to feel it. Sticky fluids staining your panties, buried under the thick, grease-stained trousers you always wore. It was hard to keep track of her. Hard to stay on target. You were pushing each thruster to the absolute limit. But you were closer - oh so close.

Backpedaling, the woman launches heaven-bound, a crescendo, reaching the peak at unimaginable velocities. Dust layered mountains loom beneath her omnipotence. Her visor flashes a miasmatic green. Another bullet. Piercing through your gun. Fracturing into a million pieces instantaneously.

That's fine.

The fuel gauge glares at you with utter dissatisfaction; it slumps onto its side like a dying animal.

That's fine.

Your fist attempts to make love to that pitifully slack button from before. It caves in on itself. No fusillade for you.

That's fine.

Choppy voices flit in and out of your ears. Something about retreating, about returning company property. You hook a wiry thumb underneath your helmet, tossing it off.

That's fine.

God you can feel it, fit to burst. Tantalizing. You will the shabby limb into reaching downwards, clasping onto a corroded handle hidden away. It pulls. You rocket skyward. Target in sight, and there's not even a need for a lock-on.

That same handle gives way to serrated teeth, draped in thin chains like a devoted bride. Those stubby fingers press down on the trigger. Revving it up. Around and around. They used these to chop trees. Not many trees anymore. No reason why it couldn't carve a mech in two.

Closing the distance from here? That's the easy part, and the closer you get, the more they resemble a harbinger of nightmares. Weaponized death. Not roiling, but ice cold. The contrast makes you heave with delight, ejecting half your daily rations. Filth etches itself onto the shattered glass.

Your mech collides with them, flurries of sparks illuminating that malfeasant visor. Lifeless eyes prying into your thoughts. Your wants. Your needs. You need to deprive them of personhood. Easier to get off that way.

Quickly. Quickly, before you lose momentum.

Your jagged fangs burrow into their mark, oscillating in high-pitch tempos. They graze the spindly limb cradling that anti-material rifle. Perfect timbre. What you'd give to do the same to her body. Deeper. And deeper, until? It gives, a spectacular crunching of metal joining the chorus. Equal to one another.

"Oh my..... this is almost too much for my delicate little heart! A bit further now love. Force your will upon me."

You want to grant her request. Reform reality for her. Stuck in that heady daze, one becomes oblivious to plenty of things.

For example, that now plummeting arm? Hiding its friend. Something tells you to lean a little. You lean. Pulsating energy punctures your cockpit right above your shoulder, right above where your head was .1743 seconds ago. It ripples with uncloaked animosity, cauterizing the innards of your machine; thickened viscera flops onto your beige uniform like a slumped corpse.

It's fucking hot.

Eating away at your fragile flesh-sack. Gnawing like a rabid animal. A blood curdling scream fills your cockpit. Did it come from your lips? Hard to tell. The only thing hotter than the magma supping on your collar bone is the moans you're letting out. Ragged little things, tendrils of saliva reaching out their sticky hands.

It's fucking hot.

Of course, the sword retracts. Your opponent's optical sensors flash in a blinding tizzy. Erratic. They're laughing? You're laughing. So close. It's easy to fasten your arm around her - disjointed chambers scrambling to lock into place. Wrapped tight around her picturesque waist. You're so heavy. She's so light.

So. You fall.

50 feet. 100 feet. 250 feet. 500 feet. 1000 feet.

Never-ending.

Enrapturing.

Cataclysmic.

Dragging each others' lecherous blades down your frames. Marking and marking and marking. Grinding cockpits. Tongue tied. The heat and the shredding of flesh and metal coalescing. Like you always belonged together. Like it couldn't end any other way.

"Hold on little badger."

So you hold her just a bit tighter.

Your heads-up display tells you to brace for impact. Let off some steam. What did your boss always say? Controlled bursts.

One.

Your grimy fingers easily tug those panties aside, ingratiating themselves like heat-seeking missiles at a corporate exhibition.

Two.

They're breaths coming through your comms. They're in the air. They're on your cracked lips. Thick and palpable. Yours. Hers. Go on - display the new product.

Three.

Wicked grins echo off each dilapidated monitor. Cracked and dirty. Plastered with love. Love. They love it. She loves it.

Four.

Synapses entangling. Connect. Connect. Connect. Loading. Loading. Loading. Riding your skeletal phalanges, tongue lolling about in abject ecstasy. It's easy to sell when you're this lascivious.

Five.

That link. You and her and her and you. Yelping and howling and squealing and crying. Tipped over the precipice. Coated in blistering pleasure. Job well done.

No place left to go.

You hit the ground - bent polymer and all. Crumpled up like human refuse. Curled and mewling, like a babe.

What strikes you first is the utter cacophony of sound; far too loud to be properly categorized, compartmentalized, situated neatly.

Indeed, it defies all explanations. Foreign.

You don't even see the hatch open. All you feel is the rush, pure dopamine sent spiraling to every sphincter of your brain as you rocket out into the cool night air.